The Last Time We Were Us (8 page)

It’s not that they don’t have anything in common. Suzanne is also a Protestant, straight-ticket Republican, and fiercely Southern. But unlike my mother, she’s just a little bit shameless. They’re on the Homeowners’ Association together, and they’ve been inseparable for almost a decade, since around when Mrs. Sullivan left.

A girl brings us minibowls of shrimp and grits, jalapeño cheese straws in heart-shaped tins, and various other pint-sized Southern dishes. Suzanne takes the lead, saying what she likes and doesn’t, Mom nodding in agreement because we all know that Suzanne cooks better than almost anyone in Bonneville. Between tastings, the two of them trade “local news,” as Suzanne likes to call it, gossiping about everyone from neighborhood women to Lyla’s new in-laws. Eventually, the conversation makes its way to me.

Mom lowers her voice like she does when the tidbits get really juicy. “So guess who we ran into at lunch yesterday?”

“Who?” Suzanne asks.

“Innis Taylor.” Mom clasps her hands together out of sheer delight. “He was very polite. Congratulated Lyla and invited Liz for a walk.” She says it as if he’s Mr. Darcy and I spent the afternoon promenading the grounds of Pemberley as opposed to getting blown off in the Walmart parking lot. “They’re going together.”

“Mom, we’re not going together,” I say. “Geez. And no one’s said ‘going together’ in like a million years.”

She waves her hand. “Oh, I know, I know. I’m not allowed to talk about anything. Let me have at least a little excitement.”

“That
is
exciting,” Suzanne says, winking at me as she scrapes the bottom of her bowl of grits.

None of us talk about how it’s actually kind of strange, Innis being Skip’s little brother and all. That I wonder sometimes whether Innis is trying to live the life that Skip could have had, if he only chose me because I’m Lyla’s younger sister. And I neglect to mention that Innis might have feelings for his ex-girlfriend. There are some things you just don’t say out loud.

When they’re stuffed and talked out, Mom puts in one order for all of Suzanne’s favorites, as well as six jugs of sweet tea.

After a stop at the florist for hydrangeas and one more at the stationery store for napkins with Lyla’s initials, we head to Belk’s department store. I mess around at the jewelry counter, while Mom and Suzanne head to the lingerie section, giggling like schoolgirls, to find something for “Lyla’s big night.” It takes almost a half hour, but I don’t dare go over and try to hurry them up. The idea of Mom scrutinizing nighties for my sister to wear for Benny makes me want to barf.

MacKenzie texts me when Mom and I are back in the car.

any word?

nothing, how was your swim?

so good, details later, u should txt him

i don’t know

do it

I type two words to Innis:
what’s up?
My thumb hovers over the Send button as Mom babbles on about the shower, how happy she is that Lyla found Benny, whether I heard Suzanne say that our neighbors five doors down are trying to get a tacky nautical-themed mailbox approved by the Association.

I steady my breaths, tap it before I can stop myself. In seconds, the message is out there, in the ether, floating its way to his phone.

“Liz,” Mom is saying. “Liz. Are you listening?”

I look up to see her turn into the shopping center near our house.

“That phone,” she says. “I swear you’re addicted to that thing.”

I bury the phone in the bottom of my bag. Maybe if I can’t see it, it’ll be like the message wasn’t sent.

“Did you even hear me?” she asks.

I turn the radio down, give her my full attention. “I know, I know. The mailbox heard round the world.”

“No, I was saying we should treat ourselves.”

“Huh?”

She smiles mischievously and drives to a spot right in front of the nail salon. “Let’s get mani-pedis.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

She looks like a bobblehead, she nods so vigorously. “It’ll be fun. Mother-daughter date.”

“All right . . . I mean, if you really want.”

“It’ll be
fun
.” This time it comes off more like a command. I bet she read this in a magazine, a checklist of Mother-of-the-Bride duties.
Don’t ignore your younger daughter—take her on a date to show you care!
Either that or she thinks my half-chipped nails will distract from the decor at the bridal shower.

She obviously has an appointment, and two ladies lead us to matching pink chairs. I set my bag on the floor next to mine, slip off my flip-flops, and dip my feet in the bubbling pool of water.

Mom strongly encourages me to stay in the red or pink color family when I try to go for purple, so I pick a coral, and she gets a classic red. I look up at the ceiling and try to calm myself down as the woman starts to scrub my feet. I remind myself that an unsolicited
what’s up
isn’t grounds for a breakup, or even a non-breakup; plus, if he does still have feelings for Alexis, it’s all moot anyway.

“So who were you texting?” I can tell she’s trying to sound casual, confiding and friend-like, but she sounds questioning, like a mom.

“MacKenzie.”

“Oh.” There’s a brief note of relief, but then true to form, once one worry is taken care of, she’s on to the next. “I thought maybe it was Innis.”

The lady switches to my other foot, and I think about telling her
I
texted
him
, made a move, broke the rules, just to rock her world a bit. But before I can, I hear the
ding ding
sound of an incoming text, and I can’t help but grin, lift my chin a little higher, because I know it’s him. I just know it is.

“Actually, I was texting him, too.”

She beams at the lady scrubbing her feet with pride, like everyone must know about the famed Innis Taylor.

“We’re friends,” I remind her.

“Whatever you say.”

We spend the next forty minutes in mani-pedi bliss. They coat our nails, and I feel fresh and clean and like maybe this Lyla-fest isn’t a bad thing after all. So far it has yielded yummy lunches and a manicure I’d never pay for myself.

Mom leaves a big tip, and we head to the car. It’s only then that I reach for my phone and see that it’s not from Innis, that Innis hasn’t answered in over an hour.

That Innis will probably never answer.

it’s jason, i want to see you again

T
HERE ARE A
fixed number of phone calls you can ignore from a best friend, even a former one. For me, apparently, that number is three.

Because when Jason calls for the fourth time that evening, I can’t help myself. “You are relentless.”

I shut my bedroom door tight so my mom won’t know what’s up, sit back on my bed, and wait for him to tell me whatever it is that’s so dire.

“Nice to talk to you, too.” For a second, I hear his childhood voice. The essence of it hasn’t changed that much, only deepened.

“One word from me about you calling incessantly, and all of Bonneville will be up in arms.”

“I’m sure they will be, as they will be no matter what I do. Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘Guilty for a minute, guilty for life’?”

“I’m pretty sure Shakespeare didn’t say that.”

“Oh, must’ve been someone on the internet.”

And—Lord help me—I laugh.

He does, too, but instantly I remember the box under my bed. “I’m sure your probation officer or whoever wouldn’t be too happy about it, either.” My voice comes out half chiding, half serious.

Jason ignores my tone. “I actually met with her yesterday. Nice woman, if a little quiet. Believe it or not, ‘Calling Lizzie Grant’ was not on a special list of things I’m not allowed to do.”

I suddenly feel ridiculous. Of course he’s allowed to call me. What Mom and the neighbors think is appropriate and what’s legal are two very different things. “Why did you call?”

“Straight to the point. You always were direct, even when we were kids.”

“Please don’t talk like you know me. You don’t anymore.”

There’s another pause, and this time I can hear him breathing, and I wonder what his face looks like right now, if he’s shaved since the other day, if his lips are pulled to a frown.

“And you don’t know everything you think you know about me, either,” he says finally.

He sounds almost like a character in a movie, with his vague allusions to innocence:
You don’t know the whole story! I was framed, I tell ya, framed!

Is he telling me the truth, or is it just what he thinks I want to hear?

“I know enough.” As it comes out, I realize it’s exactly what MacKenzie said.

“Listen, I understand why you don’t want to be seen with me. And why you don’t really like me calling your house. I know you’re not going to invite me over for dinner and pretend it’s the good old days.”

I lie back on the bed, stretch my feet out. “You’re catching on. Good job.”

“But if you saw the look on my dad’s face when I told him I saw you. And then he just kept asking about you, and . . .” He sighs. “Maybe I gave him the wrong impression. Maybe I made it sound like we’re still friends.”

“What?” I sit back up.

“You did come to see me.”

“That was a mistake. And I don’t want you blabbing about it.”

“I’m not. And I won’t. But I kind of told him you’d come over for dinner.”

I pick at the skin around my nails, hunting for an excuse.

“You don’t have to stay long,” he adds. “But he’d love to see you. You can’t possibly know how much he would love to see you.”

I do know how much, because I want to see him, too. “I don’t know.”

“Please. For him. My dad never touched Skip.” It’s the first time I’ve heard the name come out of his mouth. “He doesn’t deserve what happened. Maybe I do. But he doesn’t.”

And it’s true. It’s the only thing he’s said about that night that I know, without a doubt, is true.

“Come by tomorrow night,” he says. “Please.”

I’m supposed to be home for dinner with Benny and Lyla tomorrow, but it’ll give me an excuse to leave early. “Okay, okay. But I can’t stay for dinner. I have plans.”

“That’s fine. Just say hi. That’s all he wants.”

“Okay. I’ll be there around five. You happy?”

“Very happy,” Jason says. “Very, very happy.”

I
NNIS DOESN’T TEXT.

Sadie and Mary Ryan are in hellion mode the next morning, which distracts me for a little while at least. Still, I spend my post-babysitting hours in a haze of Chunky Monkey ice cream and advice pieces on the internet. Survey says that if he doesn’t respond within twenty-four hours, he’s
definitely
not that into you. A follow-up quiz on the teenybopper site I’m embarrassed to say I still frequent is annoyingly inconclusive. Needing to throw more search terms at my problem, I ask the internet what age you should be when you first have sex, and I get a mix of creepy posts and sad blogs, so I delete my history in case Mom looks later, and I try to focus on other things.

I have no choice but to lie to Mom as I head to Jason’s. I tell her I’m going to MacKenzie’s, and I promise to be back in time for the all-important family dinner. She tells me how amazing my nails look as I head out the door.

His apartment is just a few miles from the gas station, in a tall, plain complex that rises out of the parking lot like a bump on a cartoon character’s head.

I pull out my phone to confirm the address, and see a text from Jason.

excited to see you

Of course, there’s nothing from Innis.

I know it’s Jason’s apartment before I even see the number. The door sports a wreath of creamy magnolias, and there’s a mat I recognize from childhood: WELCOME, Y’ALL.

Nostalgia strikes again.

Jason opens the door before I even knock. “You came.”

“Were you just standing there waiting for me?”

“I heard shuffling. I was excited. I thought maybe you wouldn’t show up.” He waves me in. “I’m glad you did.”

The apartment is filled with all the things I remember. There’s the tufted sofa. The Oriental rug. The pair of Louis the Something chairs that Mr. Sullivan never let us sit in when we were kids.

“Have a seat. I’ll get you some tea.”

I sink into the couch, still wary of messing up the fancy chairs. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, back to before Jason did what he did, before, even, he ditched me. Like if we both stayed here in this room, it would all be okay.

“Lizzie!” Mr. Sullivan rushes up to me. I stand up, and he wraps me in a big hug. “Gosh,” he says as he pulls back. “Haven’t you just grown up?”

“And you look the same.” I laugh. From his perfectly clipped mustache to his bright clothing to his preppy bow tie, he is just the way I remembered him.

“Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”

“Oh.” I nod to Jason for help. I specifically told him I couldn’t stay for dinner. “I wasn’t really planning on . . .”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Sullivan says. I follow him to the kitchen to protest, but I see the table set for three, the nice cloth napkins all laid out. Jason shrugs, a mischievous smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

Mr. Sullivan lifts the lid on the pot, and the smell rushes around me. His famous chili, just for me.

“Wow,” I say. “That smells so good.”

“Your favorite, right? Jason remembered.”

I look at Jason, give him a hint of a smile. “Yes. My favorite.”

I
END UP
staying for dinner.

I’d like to say it’s because my mother told me never to refuse something offered to me while a guest in someone’s home. I’d like to say that I don’t have any loyalty to the boy who hurt all of us so much.

But I can’t, because it’s not true. I didn’t stay because of my manners or the cheddar-topped chili or even the familiar image of Mr. Sullivan’s bow tie. I stayed because of Jason, because when he looked at me with eyes wide open and pleading, like all he wanted in the whole world was this tiny scrap of forgiveness, I found I couldn’t say no.